Sleeping Arrangements
by LyricalSinger
Summary: A case takes the boys out of London and John quickly discovers that a good night's sleep is hard to come by.


Summary: A case takes the boys out of London and John quickly discovers that a good night's sleep is hard to come by.

As always huge thanks to my beta, sarajm, whose comments and suggestions ("waterbed") helped make this story so much better that it was.

Sleeping Arrangements

It had been a week from Hell for poor John. He'd been pulling extra shifts at the clinic because several of his colleagues were out with the flu that seemed to have infected most of London, if the lines at the clinic were anything to go by. In the past three days, the gentle doctor had been kicked by a three-year-old in a region where no man should ever be kicked, been thrown up on by a smart-alecky teenager and had been sneezed and/or coughed on by countless patients. They were all most apologetic, but still they SNEEZED. ON. HIM!

And that was only his days. His nights had been spent chasing after his lunatic of a flatmate as they raced through London's alleyways on the heels of a very clever thief who had been targeting some high-end jewellery shops.

Fortunately, the previous night they'd caught the thief red-handed (literally red-handed as a dye pack had exploded all over the guy), due to Sherlock's genius and, though the World's Only Consulting Detective would never admit it, some very clever police work by Lestrade and his team.

All this meant that John was looking forward to an evening of nothing more strenuous than sitting on the sofa with a Bond movie on the telly, a plate of curry and samosas in front of him and a beer in his hand.

As the Doctor stepped into the flat, shrugging off his jacket and ready to phone in his dinner order, he was ambushed by six foot of bristling detective. Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders, spun him around and yanked his jacket back up to his shoulders, speaking all the while.

"No time for that John. We've got a case and we're leaving for Surrey immediately. You can eat in the car. Mrs. Hudson insisted on packing you a couple of sandwiches and a thermos of tea. The biscuits, however, are mine! I've got your overnight bag. Let's go, and I'll fill you in on the way."

Sherlock barely took a breath as he fired off all this at John, while at the same time deftly herding the diminutive doctor down the stairs, out the door and into the rental car sitting at the curb. In the time it took for the now very confused Doctor to get seated and buckled in, Sherlock had tossed their bags into the back seat, handed John a small brown bag and a thermos, got behind the wheel and started driving out of the City.

John just sat there, staring at the items now grasped tightly in his hands. He finally looked over at his flatmate, a whole rant prepared to fling at Sherlock's head regarding the manner in which he'd been so unceremoniously hustled out of 221B, but unfortunately the only thing that came out of his mouth was a quiet "Whaaa…?"

Sherlock looked over, smirked at the smaller man sitting beside him with his mouth hanging open and dazed look on his face and said, "Eloquent as always, I see."

Realizing his quiet evening at home had now passed well beyond his control, John closed his mouth and took a deep breath. Unwrapping one of Mrs. Hudson's famous roast beef sandwiches, he turned to Sherlock and said, "Alright; I'm ready. Fill me in."

Many, many hours later, long after the sandwiches were nothing more than a fond memory, John was still not completely sure what the case was about – despite the fact that his pockets were now full of tiny bags, each containing minute samples of dirt and all labelled in Sherlock's copperplate script. John was sitting in the car fighting off sleep – rather unsuccessfully – and staring at a map when he realized they were miles from any sort of bed. He could easily go without food, despite Sherlock's numerous allegations to the contrary, but sleep … now sleep was not something John would give up willingly.

"Sherlock, according to this map, we're literally in the middle of nowhere. Did you give any thought to where we're going to spend the night?"

"Of course I did," responded the Detective as he turned the car off the main road onto a convenient small lane. "Why do you think I got us such a large vehicle? I'll sleep in the back and you can sleep right where you are; it'll be fine."

"Sherlock," responded John with disbelief in his voice, "I'm not sleeping in the car!"

"That's even better; we'll just keep going then. I've got some ideas as to the whereabouts of the missing heir and I need to do some additional research. You can sleep tomorrow."

"I'm not going to 'keep going' either. Look, I've had a stressful week between you and the clinic and all I want right now is to get some sleep."

"I just don't understand you sometimes, John. I've provided a viable solution to your perceived problem, yet you dismiss it out of hand," retorted the Detective as he shut off the car engine.

"Fine, we'll sleep in the car," huffed the Doctor as he proceeded to watch his flatmate climb into the back of the car and stretch out along the bench. From Sherlock's subsequent sigh of contentment, it was as if he was relaxing on his beloved sofa back at the flat. And, sure enough, the lanky git was asleep in seconds.

John just sat there fuming for several minutes, but then realizing he didn't have any other option available to him, he tried to get comfortable. First he tried lying across the front seat, but the gear shift kept stabbing him in somewhat 'delicate' places, and he almost got his foot caught in the steering wheel. So, he was forced to sleep sitting up; and then he discovered that he couldn't get his seat back to recline, or at least it reclined so little compared to vertical that he could hardly tell the difference.

As John twisted and shifted, and then shifted and twisted some more, he banged his knee on the dashboard and then smacked his elbow on the door handle. 'Why is it never funny,' he mused as he rubbed his elbow, 'when you hit your funny bone?' Trying to manoeuvre his body into a position better undertaken by a contortionist, he then hit is forehead on the window.

'Maybe if I put my feet on top of the dashboard," he thought, but that didn't work either. It generally didn't bother John that he was slightly below the average height for a male; but in this case, he was about 4 inches too short for this to be even possible, let alone comfortable.

As he finally curled himself into a position that seemed conducive to sleeping, John could already feel his neck muscles complaining and swore to himself that he'd make darn sure to book a room from now on.

The next morning found Sherlock bright and chipper, John tired and cranky, and no resolution in sight to the case that that brought them out of London in the first place.

After a day spent running around several villages, doing research in a couple of small town archives and speaking to several people specifically walking Scottish Terriers, John looked at his watch and realized it was coming up to 6:00 p.m.

Refusing to sleep in the car a second night, John proceeded to announce, "The next inn we come to, pull in. I'm tired and I need a good night's sleep. I'll book us a couple of rooms, and we can start fresh in the morning."

The steel in the ex-Army Doctor's voice pierced Sherlock's thoughts and he realized that he if wanted to stay on John's good side, he'd better do as ordered.

A couple of minutes later, they pulled into the car park of a small B&B. As he exited the car, Sherlock looked over at his tired companion and said, "You get the bags and I'll get us checked in."

Rather amazed that Sherlock had actually listened to him, John blinked his eyes and responded, "Really? Great!" As he was closing the car door, John called out to his friend, who was just about to enter the building, "Ask where we can get dinner while you're at it."

Though he got no verbal response, John could almost hear the detective roll his eyes at that last request. John just smiled to himself, grabbed their bags, locked the car and headed towards the B&B.

As he stepped into the tiny reception area, John caught a glimpse of the Belstaff coat as it turned a bend halfway up the staircase to his left. In front of him was a small desk, behind which stood a young woman who was obviously in charge. As he looked around, it was apparent even to John that the place was both prosperous and well cared for. The furniture looked inviting, the décor was tasteful and the colour scheme was relaxing. John hadn't taken two steps towards the desk when the woman began speaking.

"Good afternoon, and welcome to The Crossroads B&B. I'm Karen, the owner, manager, chef and general dogsbody. You must be John; your boyfriend said you were just getting the bags out of the car. Your room is up the stairs, the door on the left. You've got a private bathroom. Breakfast service starts at 7:00 and there's a pub about a half-mile down the road that I highly recommend for dinner. Now, if you'd please excuse me, I've got some bread proving in the kitchen and I've got to get back to it. Enjoy your stay with us. Sleep well, and I'll see you in the morning."

Karen gestured to an archway to the right of the reception desk and added, "Breakfast is served through there," before she headed through a green swinging door behind the desk.

"Oh, um … thank you," called John to the woman's retreating back. Then, suddenly, Karen's comments registered in his brain and he called, rather indignantly, "I'm not his boyfriend!" But his words were heard by the walls only, Karen having disappeared into the kitchen. John simply gave a small sigh, grasped the bags more firmly in his hands and climbed the stairs towards his room. "Ah, well," he thought, "at least tonight I've got a bed to sleep in."

The only door on the left-hand side of the hallway was open and John could hear the faint sounds of Sherlock pacing about the room. As he neared the door his flatmate called, "What took you so long? All you had to do was get the bags. In any event, there is a pub not far from here that apparently serves a decent meal. I find I'm quite famished so just drop the bags and we'll head back out. We've got to get an early start in the morning."

"All right, all right; hold your horses!" answered John as he stepped into the room. "What did you say when you checked us in? The owner seems to think we're … a … cou…" The doctor's voice faded off as he got a good look at the room and the bed that dominated the space.

It was huge and, to John, looked like something out of a gothic nightmare. It was crafted out of some very dark type of wood and had four carved posters that rose almost to the ceiling. There was a blue velvet canopy over top and draping down all four sides was some light, white fabric that looked to John exactly like the curtains hanging in Mrs. Hudson's sitting room. And, to make matters worse, it was the only furniture in the room! No other bed, no sofa, no chairs.

John dropped the bags and said, "Um … Sherlock."

"Yes John?"

"There's only one bed."

"Yes John."

"Why is there only one bed?"

"This is the only room they have left, so it was this or the car. Problem?"

"Yeah, there's a problem. There's only one bed!"

"Honestly John. That's your concern? Look at the size of this thing!" responded the Detective as he gestured towards the bed. "You could fit a family of four in it and still have room! So we'll have to share. It won't be a problem unless you snore."

"I don't snore!" snapped John as he stared at the monstrosity in front of him. 'I was in the Army,' he thought at the same time, 'and have slept in much worse conditions. The bed does look pretty comfortable, although a little scary. Besides, Sherlock doesn't sleep much so if I'm really lucky I'll get it all to myself.'

"Well," said John as he mustered up a smile, "it is what it is. As you say, it will all be fine. Let's go get some dinner."

Sherlock nodded his head and gestured towards the door, "After you."

They found the pub with no difficulty and enjoyed a delicious meal and a pint of the local brew. A couple of hours later, the two men were walking back to their accommodations, both pleasantly full. In actual fact, John was feeling quite content and had resigned himself to the sleeping arrangements.

On entering the room, John announced, "I'm going to have a shower and then I'm heading to bed."

"That's fine John. I've got some thinking to do, so please don't make too much noise," responded Sherlock as he took off his coat and hung it in the wardrobe.

After a long, hot shower that worked out at least a few of the kinks in his neck, John turned off the lights in the bathroom and hung his towel over the rack. He quietly entered the bedroom, trying not to disturb the genius at work, but soon realized he could have marched through blowing on a tuba and it wouldn't have made any difference. Sherlock had succumbed to exhaustion. He had changed into his pyjamas while John was in the shower and had clearly then fallen into the arms of Morpheus. The tall man was curled up on the left side of the bed and the only part of him that was visible from under the covers was the top of his mop of curls. John smiled as he slipped into the bed on the other side. Sometimes his roommate seemed more like a little child then a successful adult.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," whispered John as he turned off the lamp on the night stand. He was asleep in minutes.

A couple of hours later, John was rudely awoken by an elbow to his ribs. Looking over, he saw that Sherlock was no longer in a compact ball on the far side of the bed. Now, he resembled a starfish, as he'd spread out all over the bed and was encroaching into John's space. John shoved Sherlock's arm away from his side and whisper-yelled, "Sherlock, move over."

He got no response from the deeply asleep Detective.

John tried again, calling a little louder as he tried to shove Sherlock back to his side of the bed. Sherlock didn't wake, but he did roll over away from John, taking all the covers with him.

'This is ridiculous,' thought John as he fought to pull the duvet away from the human octopus and get some of the covers back. It was a tug-of-war between an exhausted, and now cold, Doctor and an oblivious Detective. Finally, John just gave up and curled into a tight ball with about two inches of duvet to cover him.

John was just starting to drift off when Sherlock rolled back towards him and then gave the poor doctor a swift kick to his shin, followed by an arm flailing and then connecting rather forcefully with his jaw.

"That's it!" yelled John as he sat up in bed, rubbing his jaw and wincing. "Sherlock, wake up. Sherlock!"

"What?" whined the Detective. "I was sleeping."

"Well, I wasn't," retorted John angrily. "You've managed to elbow me in the ribs, kick me in the shin and punch me in the jaw. AND you stole all the covers! Now move back to your side of the bed and give me back my half of the covers."

"All right John. There's no need to get into a flap. All you had to do was ask; I don't think this scene was necessary."

"Scene … necessary … of all the …," spluttered John as he tried to get comfortable under the duvet so kindly returned by Sherlock. "You know what? Just forget it. Go back to sleep and stay. on. your. side. of. the. bed! Good night."

"Good night John," answered the Detective as he rolled over onto his side with his back to his flatmate.

The next morning arrived and as was the situation from the previous morning, Sherlock was bright and chipper, John was tired and cranky, and once again he swore to himself that if they didn't solve the case today and needed to book a room for the night, he'd be sure it had two beds!

It was another day spent running around some different villages, checking the Land Registry records and today Sherlock seemed to only want to interview people walking beagles. That evening brought them to another inn, another assumption they were "the cutest couple", and another room with only one bed. However, this room also had a desk and one straight-backed chair.

John eyed the chair dubiously and, realizing there was absolutely no way he could sleep in it, turned to Sherlock and said, rather forcefully, "Right mate. Looks like we're sharing again. But I don't want any of the shenanigans of yesterday. No kicking, no flailing limbs, no hitting and definitely no stealing the covers. Got it?"

"Honestly John, it's not like I did any of those things on purpose. I can't control how I sleep. I just sleep. But, if it will stop your complaining, I solemnly promise to do my utmost to keep my limbs under control and not steal the covers. Is that good enough for you?" answered Sherlock, with distain dripping from every word.

"Thank you, Sherlock. I appreciate your efforts," answered John as he headed to the loo with his toiletry bag and pyjamas in hand. Ten minutes later, John exited the bathroom, put his kit away and crawled into bed, only to find himself bobbing up and down in a manner that risked ending in seasickness. "What the … oh NO! … a waterbed?" But once he'd let it settle for a few moments, John noticed the … thing … was actually quite comfortably warm. He only hoped that Sherlock would not cause some sort of tidal wave when he got in. 'Maybe it will be better if I fall asleep first,' he thought to himself as he got his pillow just the way he wanted it and got comfortable under the covers. As he turned out the light on his side of the bed, he heard the shower start and John was soon lulled to sleep by the sound of the water.

As Sherlock stepped into the room, he heard the slow, even breaths of his friend fill the room. He looked over and saw that John was dead to the world, curled up on his side with the covers tucked tight under his chin. Sherlock slipped into bed without causing a ripple. Naturally the World's Greatest Consulting Detective had long since realized the aquatic nature of their sleeping platform and acted accordingly. Glancing over at John to ensure he hadn't disturbed him, Sherlock realized he hadn't seen the Doctor looking so calm, so _young_, in a long while. Sherlock smiled slightly, turned off his bedside lamp, whispered, "Sleep well, John," and was soon fast asleep.

John's eyes popped open. He was fully awake, but couldn't figure out why. It was dark in the room and a glance at his watch showed the hour to be 2:47 a.m. Sherlock was comfortably ensconced on his side of the bed, his back to John, so John couldn't blame the man for his own wakefulness.

'Odd,' thought John as he lay back down in preparation to sleep. He was on the edge of dozing off when his eyes flew open. There was a noise. A noise he didn't recognize. And it put his soldier's reflexes on alert. John sat up and listened intently … nothing, save the usual creaks and groans of the house as it settled during the dark.

After about thirty seconds of silence, John whispered to himself, "Don't be a daft bugger; it's nothing." Then just as he was about to lay back down, he heard it again … it almost sounded like faint vocalizations, but it was in no language John recognized. Then, it suddenly got louder and John recognized the rich tones of his flatmate's baritone.

"Really? Really?! He talks in his sleep too?" moaned John. "What did I do to deserve this?"

Having no other recourse but to try to make the best of a difficult situation, John hunkered down and pulled the covers up over his ears in the hopes that would block out the noise, but not before giving the mobile mattress a good jostle, causing ripples that sent Sherlock rocking for a few moments. 'Good; maybe that will lull him into a deeper sleep', thought the Doctor. At least the Detective was staying on his side of the bed and John figured he may actually make it through the night unscathed. Now, if Sherlock only had the decency to dream in English!

John was in the middle of a slightly strange dream involving a talking cat, some dancing croissants and Venetian gondola when, without warning he found himself lying on the floor, his head about one inch from the edge of the nightstand.

He lay there, blinking owlishly in the pre-dawn light when a long arm arced off the bed and headed towards his face. As John scrambled out of the way, he finally realized what had happened. He'd fallen out of bed! He hadn't fallen out of bed since he was about six years old! As he stood up, he realized that no, he hadn't fallen out of bed; he'd been crowded out of bed - _bounced out_, truth be told. At the moment, all six feet of lanky, skinny Detective was perched precariously on the edge of the bed, and John's pillow was now being clutched rather tightly under a mess of ebony curls.

John was ready to give Sherlock hell, when he thought, 'Why bother? I'm awake now. It's coming on to 6:30 and there's no point in arguing with him at this hour. I'll just go have my shower.'

As he exited the loo about twenty minutes later, John was greeted by the sight of the World's Only Consulting Detective, in his battle gear, ready for action.

"Are you ready, John?" he asked as he threw the last of his things in his bag. "I had a breakthrough last night. I know where the missing heir is. We should be able to solve this case and be back in London tonight."

"Give me a minute and I'll be ready to go", responded John. And while he didn't verbalize it, his thoughts travelled along the line of 'Thank goodness. My own bed tonight."

Well, it took a bit longer than anticipated to locate the heir and the missing journals, but by 9:00 p.m. the case was solved, the heir arrested, the journals returned and John now had a nice fat cheque in his wallet.

The only downside was it was now too late to drive back to London, so they were forced to find local accommodations yet again.

John was determined to do whatever necessary to ensure that he got his own bed tonight, even if it meant booking two rooms. He didn't care how much it cost; it would be worth the expense if he finally got a decent night's sleep.

They pulled into the first inn they came to, but no joy; fully booked. The same story at the B&B and the small guest house they tried. Everything was fully booked.

They drove on for another ten minutes or so and soon found a lovely inn situated at the very edge of the village. "Hopefully they'll have something," said John as he hopped out the car. "At this point I'll take anything, even if it means sharing with you again."

Sherlock just gave him a disdainful look and responded, "You're the one raising a fuss, John. I've not had an issue with the rooms we've had. But, I leave it all in your capable hands."

"Wanker," muttered John as he headed into the building, praying they had a room available.

Sure enough, there was one room left. As Sherlock entered carrying their two bags, John turned to him and said, "We're in luck; we've got the last room."

The receptionist looked up from the paperwork as John spoke. She glanced over at Sherlock, then back to John. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry …" she began.

"What?" interjected John. "Is there a problem?"

"No, it's just that the only room we have left is quite small and has two beds and … well … I hope that's not a problem for you and your boyfriend."

John was so thrilled to hear 'two beds' he gave the boyfriend comment a pass and gave the receptionist a beatific smile. "Two beds, you say? Oh, no, that's not a problem. That's not a problem at all!"

The receptionist looked at Sherlock, then back at John. "Ah, a little tiff I see. Well, just remember that things always look better in the daylight," she said in a low voice as she handed John the room key.

At this point, the only thing running through John's head was a litany of 'two beds, two beds, two beds' so he gave the woman a vague nod, grasped the key and headed up the stairs to their room, Sherlock trailing behind.

John unlocked the room door with anticipation, looking forward to finally getting a decent night's sleep in a bed of his own. No more fighting for covers, bruised ribs or elbows in the face. Heaven! John pushed the door open, stepped into the room, looked around and stopped dead in his tracks. There were two beds … but seriously?!

Sherlock was coming along the hallway and noticed John standing still just inside the room.

"Is there a problem?" he queried.

"Um, no … I guess not. It's just not what I was expecting," answered John.

"Let me guess. One bed again? I just don't see what you're getting so worked up about."

"Actually Sherlock, there _are_ two beds," interjected John with the beginnings of a smile on his face. As he stepped to the side to let Sherlock in the room he added, "So … top or bottom bunk?"


End file.
